Just about two years ago, I wrote a novel.
I finished it in April of 2009, which was the final semester of my undergrad; so flooded was I with good feelings of accomplishment and mountains of pride and my own private symbolism representing crossed milestones and finalities, that I scarcely realized that my novel was pure crap; all it did was provide me with eight months of practiced writing under the wing of someone with more experience doing so than I did. I’ve done that project now, and it sits waiting in the wings for edits and improvements. I keep telling myself these edits and improvements will happen; I continually glance at pages and chapters and see how I can tighten them and create plot where no plot currently exists, except that I have a hard time figuring out in my mind, where the story is going, and how to get it there in another way. I honestly don’t know if it can be done.
The thing about the novel is, at the time I wrote it, its storyline about geographical trans-national movement reflected an emotional movement I was making. As this movement has now come full-circle and revealed itself as completed, there is no need for me or inspiration for me by which to undergo edits of this “book” I’ve written. The project helped me get over some issues of personal turmoil for me, and after that it seems to have served its purpose; and that moment I was caught up in at the time is gone.
Instead of continuously making edits on a piece I feel is completed and doesn’t require — or cannot undergo changes and edits, I feel the need to instead, engage in new projects that somehow more accurately reflect who I am now.
Maybe someday far into the future, I will find the heart to put forth effort for my novel and at that point, maybe I can shape it into the “book” I wanted it to be. But until then, I choose to write and create new projects.